


Once More With Feeling

by aliceinacoma



Category: Friends (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26005798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliceinacoma/pseuds/aliceinacoma
Summary: After Rachel shows up on her doorstep declaring the wedding is off, Monica suggests she take a trip. Where better to visit than her old friend Joey in sunny LA?
Relationships: Chandler Bing/Monica Geller, Phoebe Buffay/Mike Hannigan, Rachel Green/Joey Tribbiani, Ross Geller/Rachel Green
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

When the Geller-Greens fought, the walls trembled.

That’s how she assumed the novel of their long-winded romance would begin, the proper tone for such a twisted story. No matter how many times they tried, no matter the good intentions when they did, they always ended up at exactly the same place: in a screaming fight over something objectively stupid. Like the whether or not to leave the window open when it rained. Ross, with all his consistency, thought it impractical to let the rain in, but she liked to sit there, listening to it pour down, practicality be damned.

It certainly wasn’t their only fight, but it was the one that always seemed to hit the hardest. When their voices had reached decibels only appropriate for dogs, she’d slam the door and take a walk around the neighborhood, only to come back two hours later when she’d calmed down and they could move forward with a little more sense. Neither of them talked about how they were always moving forward a little more broken.

That last fight, though, that had been a doozy. She’d started it; she was always the one who started the fights recently, it appeared, though she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why. Her skin just started to prick every couple of months—well, couple of weeks, these days, if she was was being honest—and then Ross’s touch made her flinch. In this state, it became only a matter of time before she heard herself screaming…over what? Over nothing and slamming the door in his face.

There was no explanation for her actions. Why on earth would a woman as in love as she was want to spend so much of her time fighting with the person she loved best? Why did she do this to herself, over and over again? Why was she here, on Monica’s doorstep once again, three days before her wedding, gushing, as her best friend opened the door, “It’s over. I’m not getting married”?

Maybe she’d lost her mind. With her family history, she wouldn’t really be that surprised.

—

She cried on Monica’s shoulder for an hour before she fell into a fitful sleep on the couch. The sunlight on her face awoke her in the morning, the first time in years she hadn’t been startled awake by the ferocious blare of her alarm. In the kitchen, she could hear Monica and Chandler murmuring to one another, and she took a deep breath, eyes still closed, as the reality of her situation sunk in.

She wasn’t getting married.

A thought she’d had before, in a similar position, when she’d woken up in Monica’s Greenwich Village apartment over a decade ago, decidedly not married to Barry.

Oh god, she thought, was this who she had become now? The woman who ran away from her wedding?

Groaning, she turned over on the couch to bury her head into the crease, but the sound of her shuffle alerted Monica to her presence. The side of the couch sunk down as Monica took a seat, running a hand through her best friend’s hair.

“Hey, hun,” she said softly. “Coffee.”

Reluctantly, Rachel sat up, accepting the mug eagerly as she did so. No reason to make herself more miserable, after all; a caffeine headache would just make it harder to deal with the shit storm that was inevitably headed her way in the form of Ross. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to him, but if she had to, it would be better done fully alert.

“So,” said Monica, once Rachel had taken a few sips of coffee. “You were a little incoherent last night.”

“Oh, God, Monica,” said Rachel, running a hand over her eyes. “I’m so sorry that I dumped all of that on you.”

“Hey,” said Monica, “what are friends for, right?” She squeezed Rachel’s forearm in comfort. “But… Rachel, you said that you weren’t getting married.”

Rachel looked down into her coffee, unable to meet Monica’s eye as she said, “No, I’m not.”

Silence echoed back at her for a moment, long enough that she felt compelled to look up and studied the look on Monica’s face: disappointed, confused, but mostly filled with concern. The brunette sighed. “Are you sure?”

The question would strike Rachel as odd, when she had time to think about it later. Monica hadn’t asked ‘What happened?’ or ‘Have you lost your mind?’ - both questions that she thought were probably warranted when your best friend shows up in the middle of the night after walking out on her fiancé who happens to be your brother. But instead, Monica took the news in stride, as if she’d been anticipating such a visit, as if it had really only been a matter of when.

All this, Rachel would think about later, but for now, one tear rolling down her cheek, she whispered, “I’m sure.”

—

Three days, that’s what she told Monica. She’d be out of their hair in three days, but Monica waved off her assurances with an easy hand.

“It’s fine, Rachel, really,” she said. “Honestly, I’m kind of happy for the company. I got too used to you and Joey being just across the hall, you know? I kind of miss it. Plus,” she added, glancing into the living room where the kids sat playing together with Chandler as the designated mediator, “I think Erica and Jack are more than happy to have Emma around.”

Rachel smiled. “They do love each other.” She sank down into a seat at the kitchen table, taking in the sounds around her: the gentle babbles and giggles from the next room, the water on the stove just coming to a boil as Monica prepared pasta for dinner, the chirp of birds out the window. The lack of noise in Connecticut always threw her off when she made her way out to Monica and Chandler’s place; as happy as Rachel was to have Emma in her life, as much as she had always wanted that happy ending, the white picket fence had never really seemed appealing to her. She couldn’t imagine life without all the bustle, the hurrying from one place to the next.

Maybe that’s where it had all started going wrong this time, she thought. She might have been a city girl through and through, but the same couldn’t be said for Ross. Recently, he’d been more vocal about wanting to look into an apartment outside the city. Not just an apartment - a house, like they were some kind of nuclear family with two-point-five kids and a 401K. Which, well, she supposed she had one of those, but she didn’t like to think about it. Too Stepford Wives.

Monica, though, thrived in this environment. She bustled around the kitchen humming like nothing could make her more content. She just fit here, and Rachel was thrilled that her best friend had managed to find herself in a place where she was so unabashedly joyful. Everyone deserved that kind of happiness, however it manifested itself.

At long last, she let out a deep sigh. “What am I gonna do, Mon?” she muttered. Monica paused her cooking to lean against the kitchen counter, chewing on her bottom lip. “I just…I feel like I want to be happy so badly, but when I’m faced with it, I just run away. What’s wrong with me?”

Monica pulled out the chair next to her to take a seat. “Rach, tell me something,” she said, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. “Were you really that happy? With Ross?”

Rachel stared at her dumbly. Her first instinct, of course, was to say yes, to assure Monica that, indeed, she had been happy with her brother, that the destruction of their relationship had to do with something else, some terrible self-hating streak inside of Rachel that caused her to ruin everything good in her life. But as she opened her mouth to form the words, they wouldn’t come out.

Instead she said, “I don’t know.” Monica nodded sympathetically. Screwing her courage to the sticking place, Rachel continued, “Honestly, all I can think about recently is…Paris.”

Monica frowned. “Paris?”

“Yeah. Like, what if I had gone to Paris, taken that job? Maybe that would have been…”

She trailed off, not daring to finish her sentence. The thing was, she believed in the power of true love, but she also considered herself a feminist. And as a true-love-worshipping feminist, she’d always thought that if she chose love over her career, well, she’d feel good about it, ultimately, because at least she got to make her own choice. She never considered the possibility that she could make the wrong one.

Wiping her tears away quickly, she said, “Ah, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t go! So, guess we’ll never know.”

When she looked up, Monica had a determined look on her face that Rachel knew all-too-well only spelled trouble. Monica’s Idea Look, the one she used when she’d concocted a terrible plan that no one would ever be able to dissuade her from. Always well-meaning, that look, and so often ending in disaster.

“I think,” said Monica, “you should go.”

“What?” asked Rachel, frowning. “Go…where?”

“To Paris!” said Monica, excited. “Or anywhere, really. Wherever you want to go. Just go. Now.”

“Now?” Rachel shook her head. “What are you talking about, Mon? I just broke off my engagement, remember? Why would I take off now?”

“Why wouldn’t you take off now?” countered Monica. “You took the vacation time already, didn’t you? And we already said we’d watch Emma for you and Ross while you were away. We’ll be more than happy to keep her here for the next two weeks if Ross needs his own break.”

“But…” sputtered Rachel. Monica reached out and grabbed her hand.

“Look, Rach,” said Monica. “You’re not happy. You said it yourself. And you owe it to yourself—you owe it to Emma—to be happy. So go! Go find yourself or whatever. For two weeks, though, or I might steal your daughter and adopt her as my own.”

Rachel laughed in disbelief. “Come on, Monica. I can’t just…leave. Where would I even go?”

Monica just shrugged, smiling warmly. “Wherever the hell you want.”

—

Paris seemed like the logical decision, really. In some alternate universe, she knew that another Rachel had chosen Paris over love and spent her days lingering too long in cafes, flirting with French men, maybe even smoking the occasional cigarette, even though she knew better. Ultimately, that was why she decided Paris would be a bad decision. Her goal here was happiness, and she knew that the moment she touched down in Paris, she’d spend her entire two weeks moping, absurdly jealous of a version of herself she could never be.

There were a million other places that she considered instead, and a million reasons not to go to each: London where Ross had once said her name instead of Emily’s at the alter; Spain, where she and Ross had been set to spend their honeymoon; even beaches were somehow off limits. They’d only remind her of that time they’d all gone to Barbados to Ross’s paleontology conference, and she’d kissed Joey. How had Ross so expertly permeated the entire globe, so much that there seemed to be no where she could go without thinking of him?

She needed to go somewhere she wouldn’t have to be alone, somewhere that could be tagged by someone other than Ross.

So, without thinking too hard about it, she got herself on the first plane to California.


	2. Chapter 2

In retrospect, perhaps some warning would have been nice. A call ahead, a heads up email that said, “Hey! Don’t be alarmed when I show up on your doorstep!” Not that there were any actual steps outside Joey’s new place—as she was sure he would have very earnestly pointed out—but the point still stood. It wasn’t the greatest move, showing up unannounced, even if the person you weren’t announcing yourself to was one of your dearest friends. 

But here she was, hovering outside his apartment, psyching herself up to knock. 

What a mistake, coming here, she thought suddenly. What if—as she was suddenly certain—he had no time for her? After moving out to L.A., he’d managed to land a recurring role on some new sci-fi-horror show that Ross always laughed at incredulously whenever she turned it on. With a show like that under his belt, he’d probably have a full schedule, with no room left for his poor, single friend who’d run out on her second wedding. Hell, even if he wasn’t busy, maybe he’d still find an excuse not to have time for her. She might do the same thing, if the situation were reversed.

Except it’s Joey, said a little voice in the back of her mind. So would you really?

No, she answered, and neither would he.

With that, she rapped three times on the door and held her breath.

Nothing.

Frowning, Rachel knocked once more, but still, no one came to the door. Her stomach flipped as she scrambled in her purse for her phone. This was why calling was a good idea. Joey could have been anywhere at this point, especially considering what a gorgeous day it was. If she lived in LA, this would have been a beach day for sure.

Flipping open her phone, she pressed the “4” for speed dial, muttering, “Come on, come on, pick up.” The phone rang and rang and rang some more, until finally there came the dreaded ‘beep’ and Joey’s booming voicemail message, asking the caller to leave a message.

Rachel tossed her phone back into her purse, sinking down to sit on the ground, forehead leaning against her suitcase. Why did everything seem to go from bad to worse for her lately? She’d heard that some years just packed in the bad more harshly than others, but that she couldn’t even have a little luck here felt cruel. (She steadfastly ignored the Monica-esque voice in her head that told her a little more planning would have helped her evade this very situation.) Maybe it was better for her to just turn around and head back to the airport, catch the next plane back to New York, and call this what it was: a failed experiment.

“Rachel?”

She lifted her head at the sound of her name. At the edge of the walkway stood Joey, in all his glory, hotdog in hand, gaping at her like he was having visions of his own. Shooting up from the ground, she rushed towards the sidewalk to envelope him in the biggest hug she’d given in a good, long while. Mostly, she thought to herself, because Joey hadn’t been there to receive them. He’d always been the best hugger in the group, by a landslide, and he did not fail her now, his arms circling around her waist immediately to pull her flush against him. He’d gotten fitter, she noticed as he picked her up a few feet off the ground, likely because of his action-packed T.V. show. Or maybe just LA - she heard everyone was a health freak out here.

As he set her back down on the ground, he loosened his hold on her torso, the hand without the hotdog falling to her hip as he took a step back to look at her face. “Rach, what… you’re here!”

“I’m here!” she said, giddy with the knowledge that this had been the right choice. He _was_ happy to see her.

“Gosh, I’m just - I can’t believe it,” he said, pulling her in for another hug. “It’s so good to see you. You look great.”

“Aw, Joe,” she said, arms still around his shoulders. “You’ve barely looked at me. How would you know?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, “but you always look great.”

Rachel smiled, snuggling deeper into his embrace. For all of his roguishness, Joey had always been remarkably earnest and, in many ways, her most comforting friend. By pure chance, he seemed to know precisely how to cheer her up when she was upset. She’d missed this, his ever-enduring ability to offer an encouraging word when others needed it. 

“Thanks, Joey,” she murmured, pulling away and letting her hands slide down his arms.

“Anytime,” he said. “You wanna come in?”

“I’d love to.”

Together, they headed inside his spacious two-bedroom apartment, Rachel turning around slowly to take in all in in awe. Thought not elaborate in decor, the apartment took up twice the space of any apartment she’d ever had in New York. A small foyer area gave way to a larger living space, with what appeared to be a brand-new kitchen area that bled into a living room. A much higher class version of the tiny apartment they’d shared in the Village.

“Wow,” she breathed. “Joey, this apartment, I love it!”

Joey grinned at her, shrugging. “Ah, it’ll do I guess.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Oh, it’ll do, huh?” Adopting a very poor imitation of Joey, she said, “I’m a big TV star, it’ll do, it’ll do.”

At this, his grin grew wider. “I am a big star, aren’t I?”

“I hear you play especially well with the gals over 40.”

“Hey, that’s a loyal group right there, okay? Bored housewives love Joey.”

“Oh I believe it,” said Rachel, reveling in the ease with which they fell back into this old routine, cracking jokes at one another, and her chest ached as she realized how much she’d missed this. They did their best to keep up with one another, of course, texting and regular phones calls, but with all the wedding planning, she hadn’t actually talked to Joey in months. The sound of his voice now swelled inside her, filling her up with a kind of comfort she hadn’t known she was craving.

Not that she’d be telling him that. He’d only make it dirty.

“So, Rach,” said Joey as they settled further into the apartment, dumping her suitcase onto the floor and taking their seats on the large couch that faced a huge flatscreen TV. “Not that it’s not great to see you, obviously, but…what are you doing here? I mean, aren’t you getting married in, like, three days?”

As the words left his mouth, she stilled, overwhelmed by a kind of dread she hadn’t felt in a long time, perhaps not since the last time she’d run away from her wedding and not been sure what the universe had in store for her next. Slowly, she turned to face Joey, forcing herself to look at him directly in the eye as she asked, “Monica didn’t call you?”

Joey frowned, running a hand through his hair. “Oh,” he said. “Yeah, she called yesterday, but I, uh, didn’t get to listen to the message yet. Why?”

Rachel let out a long breath, offering him that small, sad smile she knew would be permanent before the end of the month. “Wedding’s off. Ross and I aren’t getting married.”

—

Short as she tried to keep the conversation—she was sick of repeating herself over and over again—Joey inevitably had a lot of questions. Namely, if she was okay.

“I’m fine, Joe, really,” she assured him, sinking back even deeper into the couch as he paced before her, brow furrowed the way it did when he tried to work out a particularly distressing problem. “Honey, would you please just come sit down?”

He obliged, taking his seat next to her on the couch once again, grabbing her hand in his. Squeezing once, she threaded their fingers together.

“I’m so sorry, Rach,” he said.

“Yeah,” she replied softly. “Me too.”

“If there’s anything I can do…”

Sitting up, Rachel said, “Actually, I, uh, I was kind of wondering if I could crash with you. You know, while I’m here. I know I should have called, but, uh, I kind of decided to come here on sort of a whim, so…”

“Of course you can stay here, Rachel. But, uh,” he added a little sheepishly. “The second bedroom isn’t really a bedroom in the traditional sense. It’s kind of this pseudo-home-office-slash-work-out room.”

“Oh. Well that’s fine, I can just take the couch.”

“No!” insisted Joey, squeezing her fingers. “No, you take the bedroom. I’ll take the couch.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “What if you want to bring somebody home? I don’t want to get in the way.”

“Come on, Rach,” he said with a smirk, “if I wanna go home with somebody, we’ll just go to her place.”

Her snort turned into a full-on laugh at his expression, simultaneously so self-assured and hammy at the same time. He grinned at her as she settled back into the couch once more, but neither of them made any move to release their clasped hands that sat between them. She glanced down, taking in the way their hands fit together. Normal social rules probably dictated that they weren’t meant to sit on the couch holding hands, but she had no desire to pull away. She and Joey had always been physically affection, both before and after their brief and disastrous attempt at dating. Perhaps they hadn’t straight-out held hands, but she’d just broken up with someone, hadn’t she? She deserved a little comfort.

Burying her hand deeper into his, she said, “So. You hungry?” 


End file.
